Grow
by Lovelybrutal
Summary: He's not your typical cannabis supplier. But try telling Bella that. We all need to do a little growing sometimes. Rated R for Rusty, because God am I rusty. Mature situations, including the unstigmatized use of weed. Written in slow, faithful continuation of Yellowglue's 2011 Birthday Wish. Preview of my contribution for Babies At The Border Compilation. Details inside.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, folks! Long time no publish! The following is an excerpt from Grow, which will be available in the Babies At The Border compilation, featuring original and fanfiction works from 125 of your favorite authors. Funds raised will benefit several charities working to reunite and provide legal aid to children and families that have been separated at the U.S. Border. For more information, please visit babiesattheborder . blogspot . com. Thank you so much for reading.

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Turning on the tap and letting it run for a moment, cold gets colder against my warm skin. Both hands cupped under the stream, I lean down and sip from the pool in my palm. It's so sweet, so cold and clean-tasting, and I can't get enough. It runs through my fingers and kisses my face. It slides down my throat and I drink and drink until I feel it in my belly.

A koi fish swims over my head, silent and pale.

"Mugs are up here," Edward's voice is breezy soft as he hands me one. It's deep green-brown, with a thick, bubbly glaze, and looks hand-thrown. "I don't really have glasses."

I wipe the water from my chin and turn my eyes down, intensely shy. I must look so ridiculous, gulping water from his sink.

"Thank you," I say, filling the heavy mug and setting it down on the counter.

I'm not thirsty anymore.


	2. Grow

Happy New Year, beautiful souls! This is the full version of Grow as read by those who received the Babies at the Border Compilation. Many thanks to the organizers, authors, and those who donated to this very important cause! Enjoy and may your 2019 be blessed with love, laughter, strength, courage, and of course, relaxation.

Grow

by Lovelybrutal

Summary: He's not your typical cannabis supplier. But try telling Bella that. We all need to do a little growing sometimes. Rated R for Rusty, because God am I rusty. Mature situations, including the unstigmatized use of weed. Written in slow, faithful continuation of Yellowglue's 2011 Birthday Wish.

"I changed my mind."

Rose turns in the front seat to look at me, slow-blinking her irritation.

"I changed my _mind_ , Rose. I'm not going in."

She just stares back. This is her effortless tactic to get me to talk until I realize I sound foolish and change my mind back.

Best friends are impossible to fight with. They know all your weak spots.

"I don't even know this guy, Rose."

It was already working.

"I don't know him, and I don't want to go into a drug dealer's house." I cross my arms and try not to recognize the petulant whine in my own voice.

Cocking her head to the side, Rose stares hard with one eyebrow up, giving me the "Bella you're acting like a brat" look.

We live together, so I get this look a lot.

I set my lips in a tight pout and stand firm … ish. But only because I'm sitting in the backseat of her boyfriend's car.

"I'm not going inside."

Emmett pulls off the one-lane county road into a little gravel driveway beside a charming restored farmhouse. Sweetly distressed french blue wood siding catches hot summer sunlight, and heart shaped leaves flutter on morning glory vines climbing the wooden columns of the shady porch. The grass is lush and freshly mowed, and antique white flower boxes hold colorful petunias, ranunculus, and daisies. It's surprisingly quaint and adorable for a drug den. Like this is where Grandma would go to buy weed.

"What if Emmett goes in to get the stuff and you and I wait here in the car?"

Rose's annoyed inhale is the tick of a time bomb.

"Bella. That would be rude."

"I know but like, what if there's a ton of big scary dudes in there and like, guns all over the place and ..." I trail off as I look out the window because from the outside, this house looks more likely to have tea cozies than thugs in it.

"It's not like that. Emmett says he's really nice."

"He's really nice," Emmett parrots. "He's not even a dealer _._ He's just a grower."

"How is _that_ better?"

"Bella, he just grows plants and gets paid for it, okay? Like a farmer."

A farmer whose potatoes sell for $350 an ounce, melt your face off at Phish shows, and could get us arrested if they raided this place tonight.

"Please, Bella. Just hang out for a little bit."

I had to admit, my rough preconceptions were already dropping away as heavy-headed white dahlias nod in the bright breeze.

Exhaling, I rub my face. Okay, anxiety, I tried. Now fuck off, maybe.

But it doesn't. Anxiety won't leave me alone. Doesn't matter whether it's about guys, friends, politics, money, sex. Now I'm even anxious about the weed I smoke to help with my anxiety.

Emmett parks the car and gets out, coming around to open Rose's door. She turns to wink at me. "I promise not to leave you alone with him if you're scared."

Exhaling deeply, I open the door and step out into the gravel driveway. Cicada song rushes around me, and summer heat bathes my skin. Rose walks by my side, slipping her hand into mine as Emmett strides up to the front door.

"I've got you, girl."

At once, I am both reminded of what a good friend I have, and suddenly sorry for spoiling her perfect, cool hand with my nervous, sweaty fingers.

Rose makes everything seem so easy. Dressing well, talking to people, work, dating. I know she struggles to seem so effortless, but it's hard not to feel small and stupid when even her penmanship looks easy, flowing and flourished.

Today, I will pretend to be just like Rosalie Hale. I will be collected and confident and composed. I will try to make her proud.

Emmett rings the antique brass doorbell, and it warms my heart with a mechanical trill, the exact same sound of the bell on the pink Huffy bike with white tires I rode when I was ten. We wait, awkward in August heat.

For a minute.

He rings again, and I shift my weight, peering at the sweet alyssum and emerald blue phlox rambling over the small garden. Covering his eyes from the sun, Emmett looks through the frosted stained glass window, and rings again. "Hello?"

"Call him?"

"I don't have a signal here."

My stomach starts to twist as I remember how badly I wanted to just get in the car and go home. The instinct to bolt while I still can spreads cold fingers across the back of my neck, making the hair on my arms stir.

Rose squeezes my hand just a little tighter. She's not going to let me run.

And she's not going to let me fall, either.

Finally, there's movement from inside. A shadow hand pulls back a deep-red curtain on a side window. There's a dry, warm laugh before the door even opens, a set of heavy clicks unlocking locks and lifting chains.

I stare at my fingers, watching my short, stormy blue nails alternate with Rose's impeccable French manicure.

I can do this for her. I can be that brave.

"Hey, Emmett! Dude, you got fat!" The voice is deep and overflowing with light laughter, and I hear the back-slapping hug instead of watching it.

"Maybe I did, but you're still an asshole, Edward. I bet my dick weighs more than you!"

"Well, fuck, man, if you ever find it, let me know!"

The roaring laughter between them is genuine and disarming, and I smile to the stone walkway beneath my feet as Rose steps forward, her hand slipping from mine.

"Here she is, man. The future Mrs. McCarty."

A low chuckle, more like a hum.

"It's an honor to finally meet anyone who can stand being around this beast long enough to learn his last name, let alone dare to take it."

I look up just as he reaches forward to hug her, and his face over her shoulder fills my eyes.

Sharp cheekbones perch over a sharper jawline, brushed with the promise of stubble, and his eyes are the sharpest green, I can't help but I think of a garden.

Edward pulls back, and underneath his chin, what looks like the top of an hourglass tattoo sits squarely along the center of his throat. He's shaved-headed and shirtless, and my eyes drift without consent to his full sleeves of ink. A lion, a dagger through a rose, a ship with billowing sails, a sugar skull. An ornate key sits in the center of his chest, surrounded with black filigree. The round, watery eyes of a koi appraise me gently from his forearm.

I thought pot makes people put on weight. This boy is wiry.

I might be staring a little.

"This is Rose's friend, Bella."

I pop my hand up in an awkward wave, lips pressing together.

"Hi."

I kind of wish he would put a shirt on. And also, kind of not.

"Very pleased to meet you, Bella." I don't miss the way he turns his head slightly as he says it, like he's sizing me up. Like he's trying to get a read on me.

We don't shake hands, and when the effort it takes to maintain eye contact becomes too much, he speaks.

"Come in?"

Inside the stained-glass lit foyer, we're greeted by the smell of fresh sawdust and cedar. The scent eases my tension, even though the house looks half-finished. The walls are painted, but there are no photographs or posters. There's furniture, but it's placed awkwardly, like he's in the middle of rearranging the room.

"Sorry I didn't answer right away, I was finishing building something in the basement. Please, make yourself at home," he eyes me as he gestures towards the large living room. "Let me just clean up and I'll be right back."

The couch and side table look comfy but antique, upholstered in button-tufted red velvet, dark wood and intricate scrollwork seeming out of place décor for someone so young. The sitting area faces the sunny front window, and I notice stacks and stacks of books against the walls, but no TV.

Comfortable in his surroundings, Emmett drops himself onto the sofa and reads the screen of an iPod dock I hadn't seen. The soft, smoky vocals of Portishead seem to darken the corners of the room, and even though summer's at full boil outside, I feel a chill as stars climb my spine.

Stepping into the room, I smell the weed just as I see it. A skunky, earthy scent with a pungent twist leads my eyes to large blue glass charger on a half-round side table against the wall, holding three fat sticks, rolling papers, and a grinder with a mandala carved into it. Six packed bricks, an ounce each, sit patiently behind.

"Holy shit."

I wasn't sure if I'd said it out loud, but Emmett's already inspecting, lifting one of the thicker sticks to the light, sniffing it like a sommelier interrogating a glass of chardonnay.

"This is some of the prettiest bud I've ever held in my own God damn hands," he breathes, almost reverent.

I have to admit, just looking at it, my steps sway a little. The air in my throat sparkles, excited for a taste of magic, but all I can think was how much money that much weed had to be worth. A few thousand dollars, lying right out there in the open. A man with resources like that had to protect them.

And that meant he must have guns in his house.

I swallow, and anxiety is there in my throat, a layer of shaky skin under my own.

…

When Edward comes back up from the basement, bare footsteps nearly silent, his dark wash jeans are covered in sawdust, and the scent that washes over me is irresistible as a yawn.

"Quick shower," he shouts, already turning, climbing the stairs to the second floor. "Help yourself to whatever."

"How about this whatever?" Emmett calls, holding up one of the dried stems.

"Sure," Edward laughs. "It's potent, but knock yourself out."

Emmett gives a little whoop and digs his own Zig-Zags from his pocket. "You in, Bell?"

I'm so tempted, but I'm also nervous, and I need to feel more grounded before I can let go.

"Maybe later."

Light streams in from what looks like a kitchen, and I peek around the corner to see if I can find a bottle of water.

The kitchen is clean and bright. Wooden cutting boards and earth-toned tiles. A sink half-full of coffee cups and soup spoons. Barely ripe bananas hang from a little hook, and mixed plums and clementines in a glass bowl throw colored sunshine around the room.

Inside his refrigerator, there's four different kinds of beer. A pitcher of ice water and another that looks like tea. Almond milk and coconut cream. Hot sauce. Caesar dressing. And absolutely nothing else.

No girlfriend would be my first guess.

Although, I guess drug suppliers probably don't get to have girlfriends. They probably just fuck hoes and then cuddle up with their guns at night.

I'm thirsty, but suddenly feel a little too shy to go through his cabinets for a glass. I don't want to find anything that might be called evidence.

Turning on the tap and letting it run for a moment, cold gets colder against my warm skin. Both hands cupped under the stream, I lean down and sip from the pool in my palm. It's so sweet, so cold and clean-tasting, and I can't get enough. It runs through my fingers and kisses my face. It slides down my throat and I drink and drink until I feel it in my belly.

A koi fish swims over my head, silent and pale.

"Mugs are up here," his voice is breezy soft as he reaches into a cabinet above me and hands me one. It's deep green-brown, with a thick, bubbly glaze, and looks hand-thrown. "I don't really have glasses."

I wipe the water from my chin and turn my eyes down, intensely shy. I must look so ridiculous, gulping water from his sink.

"Thank you," I say, filling the heavy mug and setting it down on the counter.

I'm not thirsty anymore.

I can feel his eyes on me. They aren't unkind, but I'm not used to being noticed like this.

"Maybe I'll just check on Rose … " I trail off, taking a step towards the living room.

As I peer back towards the couch, thick guitar twining around delicate, spindled vocals, my stomach sinks to see Rose on Emmett's lap, wrapping her whole self around him. A half-smoked joint leans into a glass ashtray, whispering white smoke to the air as open red lips embrace his. Her hand is soft against his face, glossy nails against dark stubble, and while it's not a new sight to me, I turn away, embarrassed.

Edward's behind me. I know because I can feel the heat of his body touching mine through the air between us. I somehow feel steadied and on edge at the same time.

"Let's go outside," he says quietly, and although his voice is gentle, it's not a request.

The idea of fresh air is better than the reality of it. The drone of cicadas and summer humidity make my skin crawl. He leads me around the gravel towards the back of the house, between the windows and the woods, where it's shady and cooler.

What I didn't see from the kitchen windows was another little garden clustered up against the house. I inhale deeply, and the scent I pick up is so luscious, I can't help looking around for its source. Sweet, sultry and confident, it smells full and shameless and good.

A few feet behind me, close to the treeline, Edward picks something from a branch. He straightens, motioning as if to toss it towards me, and I bend my knees, ready to catch.

It's a peach.

Not only that but it's like, the largest, freshest peach I've ever seen, and it's the smell I couldn't help but notice.

"You grow fruit, too?"

 _No, he just ran to the store really fast and left this in his garden, smart ass._

He nods, looking into the trees at the edge of the woods.

"Two kinds of peaches. Strawberries, raspberries," he points. " A few apple trees, farther back."

"You can grow that stuff? Like, here?"

I'm embarrassed of how astonished my voice sounds, but he smiles.

"Sure, but not just fruit. There," he points the the garden behind me, tucked up against the house, "are enough tomatoes, cucumber and squash to feed most of the town all summer."

I step closer, and bend down, but I don't know what I'm looking at. I don't see, like, broccoli and stuff. I see a lot of flowers. And leaves.

"Basil, rosemary, dill, sage, garlic … " he points to different plants as he goes, but I can't keep up. They look like lace, and little dusty Christmas trees, and long green drinking straws to me.

I don't cook that much.

In a moment, he's beside me, running tattooed fingers over scalloped green leaves. He tears off a sprig and holds it out to me.

"Mint." He pulls a leaf off and chews it.

I wrinkle my nose, but I definitely smell strong, fresh peppermint. "Isn't that dirty?"

He laughs through his nose. "It's just a little dirt. It's made of it. It _grows_ in it."

I look at the peach in my hand. The skin is so soft, the stem bending easily where it broke from the tree. It's heavy in my palm, and so tempting.

I want it. Even if it is unwashed.

Brushing my hands over fuzzy, red-speckled skin, I bring it to my mouth with both hands. After a long inhale, my teeth slowly sink into the soft flesh, pinkish-yellow painting the sweetest second of summer on my tongue, so juicy I have to tilt my head to keep it from running down my chin.

I hadn't meant to close my eyes, but when I open them, Edward is ahead of me, near the corner of the house, stepping from shade to sunshine. He beckons me over with a wave, and the August breeze blows a hundred growing, green scents past my skin.

This is definitely not the kind of drug dealer I thought I was going to be meeting. He's got the intimidating appearance, but there's more under his skin than ink and ice.

He looks more at home out here, surrounded by peach blossoms and peppermint, than in some dank whiskey-sour basement with gunpowder and nicotine fingers.

For the first time maybe in years, someone has surprised me.

I take another divine bite and follow him, the light through the trees dappling inked shoulders. Tracing his gaze to a trellis crisscrossed with light green vines, I spy two adorably small, pale tiger-striped watermelons just a few inches off the ground. Three more rest on the soil, full-sized and deep green gorgeous, still on the the vine.

"Want to take one of these inside?"

I smile.

"Go ahead," ne nods to the tangle of vines. "Pick the best one."

I feel like I'm taking a pop quiz for a minute as he watches me twist my mouth into a thoughtful pout and choose my favorite, the one with the widest brushstroke stripes. When I look up, he is smiling so wide at me.

"This one?"

Nodding, I lift my peach to my lips for another bite, just to cover the way they want to curl up in a giddy grin.

He bends down, separating the vine from the end of the plump melon, and lifts it onto his shoulder.

"Come on. Let's see how sweet she is."

He turns his back to me to lead us back to the house, and I won't skip. But I want to.

...

Entering through the front door, we pass the room where Rose and Em were last seen wrestling to get inside each other's tracheas, and I don't turn to look.

The hefty green fruit looks almost unnaturally round on the butcher's block kitchen island, and even though the air conditioning is set to roughly the same temperature as Pluto, I feel hot under my skin.

After wiping its freckled-fresh stripes down, Edward opens a drawer and pulls out a machete.

Seriously, it's a fucking machete.

With One Direction duct tape on the handle.

Rune-tattooed thumb over Harry Styles' mouth, Edward lines up the blade, then brings it down hard, straight into the widest part of the melon, and it replies with the crisp sound of unlocking.

The flesh inside is so, so obscenely pink, I blush.

I can do little more than stand there holding my watering mouth closed while he cuts each half into even quarters, and then eighths, then classic triangles of wet pink flesh, bright green and creamy white rind, the air practically alight with the singular scent of summer freshness. With juicy-slick hands, he arranges each piece on a cutting board, delicious looking enough to make me forget my manners as I reach out for a slice.

'"Uh-uh," he chides, stopping me before I claim a thick wedge of delicate vermilion pink. "Wait."

I straighten, affronted, as he wipes his hands on a clean towel, drops the machete into the sink, and picks up a glass salt grinder.

My eyebrows tighten, and he looks up at me with a laugh.

"What?" he asks, "You've never had it this way before?"

I hold back my answer as he lifts two slices onto a glass dish and coarse-grinds a little sea salt over them.

Holding the plate out to me, he leans back against the kitchen island.

I take it, but stare for a moment, checking his eyes for a hint of what to expect.

"Salted fruit?" I ask, absurdity coloring my tone.

"Your new favorite," he smiles, the curve at his lips carrying the natural pleasure of mischief.

Curious, I bring the point of the first slice to my lips. The juicy sweetness of summer's pinkest, gentlest daughter is refreshing even before it touches my tongue.

The first bite is both satisfying and exciting on a level I didn't expect. Lofty, sun-warm spun sugar fruit melts on my tongue, pure and perfect, balanced with the wild, earthy depth of the salt. Together, the two tastes climb higher, and I hum into a juicy mouthful.

"Oh my God," I moan between bites, lifting my hand to wipe the juice from my lips.

The smirk in Edward's eyes says, " _See_?" in the kindest way. He looks like he's somehow proud of me.

Eating is easier than eye contact, so I take another bite, watching the way the light from the kitchen window glitters against nearly-translucent watermelon pink, glowing through every moment that was spent watering, pruning, and caring for this plant, all to bring it to my lips.

"Everyone should have a garden," he says. "People just don't know what they're missing, until they do."

"Not everyone has the time or space to grow their own food," I argue. I can't imagine fitting apple trees into the little apartment Rose and I share.

"There's always room in your life for what you love," he says, green eyes sure and steady on mine.

I want to look deeper into what he's saying, because it sounds profound, but there's a seed in my mouth and I can't spit it out under this intense of a gaze.

"Can I have a napkin?"

He turns halfway, grabbing a paper towel and handing it to me, and I lift it to my face, dabbing at sticky sweetness. When I crumple it in my hand and look up, he's already smiling at me, and I can't help but smile back.

"Oh my God, I'm so hungry!" I hear Rose before I see her. She stops beside me, taking the other slice of watermelon from the plate and groaning as the first bite hits her tongue. "This is so fucking good, what is this? Salt?"

Emmett follows behind her, and I finally notice how make-out fucked-up her hair is, untamed blonde knotted up into a hasty ponytail.

"Help yourselves," Edward offers. "There's some beer in the fridge too, I think."

We turn away from them as they dig in."Hey," he whispers, sidling up to me while Emmett cuts more watermelon. "Want to see the stars?"

"In the middle of the day?" I ask.

"Any time." He smiles, and gestures with his head for me to follow.

I want to, and without thinking, I do.

…

Down the dark wood staircase, it gets even cooler, and I pick up more and more of a botanical scent. There's a long, wide hallway at the bottom, with four or five doors, all closed. At the end to my left, there's a wide sitting area, with an antique chaise, upholstered in what feels like very old, very delicate lipstick-red velvet. A matching end table sits beside it, curved, elegant drawers and a lamp that looks like it could have come from a burlesque house. Actually, this whole house could have come from a burlesque house.

Edward sits on the couch and clicks the light on, opening up the top drawer. Inside is a wide, flat wooden box, and I sit next to him to see it better.

When he opens the lid, a comfortingly dank smell climbs into and around me, and even though I'm not hungry, my mouth waters. I hear Rose and Em laugh upstairs, and even though I love them, I'm glad to be here, with Edward. Inside the lined box, there are rolling papers, a roach clip, two small glass pipes, and four or five cork-topped glass tubes with soft looking nuggets in different shades of green.

"Are these the stars?" I ask.

He laughs. "Not yet." He turns the box towards me. "Lady's choice."

Gently, I reach out a curious finger and turn the little vials so that I can read their labels.

Afghan Black.

Red Congolese.

Acapulco Gold.

"Did you grow these?"

He shakes his head. "No, these aren't mine. They're heirloom strains."

"Are they really expensive?"

"Well, they can be pretty tough to find."

Chocolate Thai.

Mekong Purple.

"I don't bring these out very often," he goes on, low, "But sometimes, you feel like sharing."

Instead of meeting the eyes I can feel on me in my peripheral vision, I choose the Afghan Black, lifting it from the box and holding it up for him.

Edward smiles. "An excellent choice."

He opens the top, and a thick, heavy sweetness rolls towards me. Edward pinches some of the dried, sticky-looking leaves off, crushing them slightly in his fingers and letting them fall into a small, delicate-looking glass bowl.

"You don't want to roll a joint?" I ask.

"Bella," he pauses to break a little more off, rolling it between the pads of his fingertips, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't know if you could handle a joint of this."

I squint at him. "Hey, I've been smoking since eighth grade," I laugh.

He smiles, tapping the side of the pipe and handing it to me. "That may be, but you haven't been smoking Afghan Indica since eighth grade."

He passes me a lighter and I flick it, tiny orange sparks crackling under my thumb.

"Should I be worried? Is it going to be intense?"

"No," he says softly. "Just relaxing."

Relaxing is exactly what I want right now. I lift the lighter and breathe in, and the smoke is thick and almost rough on my throat. It feels potent. I don't want to cough, because I'm afraid it makes me look like a rookie, but I can't help it.

He takes the pipe from me and hits it too, but he doesn't cough. When he exhales, it's a pure white stream from his parted lips, and he offers it back to me.

I shake my head. I don't know if it's from smoking or the smoke, but my eyes are already feeling fuzzy and prickled-tight. I practice blinking, and it feels so good.

"Mmmm," I hum before I can stop myself, leaning back against the couch. I can hear music coming from upstairs, something with distorted, low female vocals and a beat that sounds like it was stolen from a 50s surf movie and run through a taffy pulling machine.

"Oh my God," I whisper. My stomach swirls warm and my legs feel unsupported soft, and I can't stop my smile.

"Your new favorite?" he whispers, closer than I had remembered him being.

"Mm hmm," I reply, my eyes closing on their own.

"Hey," he nudges me softly, "Ready for those stars?"

I'm not sure I remember what he was talking about, but I open my eyes, with effort, and nod assent.

Moving to the end of the couch, he clicks the lamp again, but instead of turning off, it changes to blacklight, flooding us in deep, cool indigo.

The ceiling above Edward and I twinkles to life, stars and planets and comets glowing in luminous white. I can't help but giggle, and lay myself down on the chaise, the crown of my head resting on his thigh, my bones feeling untethered inside my body.

I try to take them all in, slowly realizing that these are real constellations represented in glow-in-the-dark paint. He must have spent hours on a ladder, carefully positioning each star where it belongs, bringing the night sky inside to live here. With capable, careful fingers, he must have placed each one thoughtfully, mapping out the infinite in this tiny space.

And right now, it feels like he did it just for me.

…

I wake up dazed and drowsy. I know I'm still high because I don't know quite where I am, but I don't really care much, either. Closing my eyes again, I savor the calm inside me, the rested warmth in my skin.

There's a shuffle of footsteps, and the sound of water. Lifting my head, a sliver of white light trails from a partly-closed door behind me.

I get up to look inside, and when I step in, I am on the sun.

I can't shut my eyes tightly enough, and when I blink, there are only phosphenes and afterimages. The air is heavy with humidity and the thick, wet scent of growing things.

"Hey," a voice says softly, close to my ear. "Put these on."

I feel a pair of sunglasses placed in my hand. I put them on with my eyes closed, and when I open them, everything is sharp and cool in tones of grey & olive.

There are maybe a hundred marijuana plants here. They're nestled in row after row of wooden flower boxes, resting upon what looks like old-fashioned elementary school desks. Their roots are comfortably potted at waist-height, and the smells of dirt and green make my head swirl. Their stems are thin but sturdy, with soft looking silver fur, and staked with thin dowels and tied with bits of string, rags, ribbon and twine.

I reach out my hand to touch the spiked leaves, and their luscious botanical smell seems to rise towards me. They appear to grow deeper green, slipping from shamrock to pine to emerald when I touch them, and their softness feels like it melts under my fingertips.

I'm fascinated. I've smoked quite a bit of this stuff when it's dried and treated, but I've never touched it while it's still growing, still so alive. There's a little bit of magic in each serrated leaf, and this room is syrupy-thick with it. I close my eyes and fill my lungs up with the tender, living scent and hold it in, letting my body absorb the feeling. With eyes closed, and my chest ready to burst, I swear, I almost hear the plants singing to me in a summery hum.

In the midst of my reverie, I remember that I'm not alone, and look up to find Edward studying me with amusement.

"You like?"

"I love it," I answer earnestly. Suddenly shy, I turn and step slowly down an aisle between the desks, fingers trailing along the edges of the wooden planters. Pointed leaf tips skim against my forearm as I walk.

"It's a new hybrid. I've been working on it for a few years now." His voice is low, his face blank, but I can hear the note of pride he struggles to conceal.

"You _made_ your own kind of weed?"

"I prefer to call it cannabis, but yeah. You want to see what it looks like when it's dried?"

He leads me to a workbench with a glass dish of bright, tightly-clustered nuggets. I touch one, and the brittle little leaves seem to brush me back. I might still be high, but I think I notice a subtle sparkle.

I can almost feel Edward's smile as I lean closer to the dish, turning them over in my hands. Their scent lights up inside my nose as I notice tiny, glittering blue crystals that seem to stick to the pale undersides of curled leaves.

"I call it Baby Blue."

I smile towards the floor, still admiring the delicately twisted buds as he continues.

"It's cross-bred from a few different varieties. It's got a lighter scent, it's naturally more resistant to disease, and both the THC and CBD compounds have a longer half-life."

"Half-life?"

"It stays in your bloodstream longer, Bella," he explains, getting more excited. "The high hits you slower, but it builds and keeps you lifted. Do you ..." His voice goes quiet as he takes the plump nugget I was toying with and crumbles it between his fingers. Little dried leaves flake and fall into the glass dish, and the scent is encompassing, warm and heady, wrapping me up. Green, lightly floral, subtle like verbena, but with a dank note underneath, like deep water. A sweet warmth balances the aroma, reminding me of cinnamon, pumpkin, and vanilla. It's incomparably delicious. I hum and hold the air in my nose, savoring.

 _You will never forget the first time you smelled this,_ something inside me whispers _. Nothing in the whole world will ever smell as good as this right now._

"Do you want to try it?"

Oh fuck yes.

"Sure, if it's okay," I answer in a breath. Proud of myself for keeping my voice steady and polite, inside I can't help but tremble with a raw, random urge to put the fingers he just crushed the bud with in my mouth.

He smirks and turns to leave, gesturing for me to follow.

"Where are we going?"

"My bedroom."

My chest freezes mid-breath, but I manage to keep walking behind him as he reaches the stairs, light from the first floor trickling down the steps.

His bedroom.

I want to see it, but am I ready to? Am I the kind of person that goes into a drug supplier's bedroom alone?

"I don't like to smoke down there. A few too many flammables."

He waits for me to reach him at the landing. I smell the dried leaves in his hands and the scent of his skin, a mix of juniper, cream, and summer sky at night. We turn and step together onto the first floor, the sun through stained glass painting its watercolor light all over the dark hardwood.

"We don't have to go to my bedroom, if you don't want." He cranes his neck to see into the living room. "Em & Ro are passed out on the couch, but we can smoke out in the garden, or wherever."

He presses his lips together and blinks slowly, and his eyelashes look so long. I noticed his abundance of tattoos first, but now they just seem part of him. What I notice now is how kind his eyes are when he's looking at me.

I don't know what will happen upstairs, but I think it might end up being the most interesting thing I've ever done.

"I'd like to see your bedroom."

When we step inside, I like it even more.

The air conditioner must be set on glacier. My arms cross over my chest, sliding new goosebumps over each other. The blast of coolness is a stark contrast to all the warm colors, red on red, more dark wood. The walls are textured walnut brown, matching all the dark hardwood in the house. The drapes, half-drawn and a few feet too long for the windows, pool on the floor in swirling crimson. The light that tumbles in is amber colored and thick, dusty swirls dance in its glow.

The four-poster bed looks unusually high, crisp with white sheets and pillows, a deep red comforter thrown hastily across it. There's an antique table in the middle of the room with a small sofa upholstered in the same blood-dark shade of velvet.

I'm a little afraid to touch any of it.

Edward, however, is not.

He sits down on the sofa, setting the dish in front of him on the table, and reaches into a drawer I hadn't seen. He tosses a pack of rolling papers, a little carved ashtray and a green lighter on the table and breaks up the bud gently while I watch.

"You can sit wherever you want," he says softly, only looking up for a second.

Pulling a single paper free, he holds it expertly with one hand as he crumbles fragrant green into it.

He fills and nudges and taps and I just stare.

And want.

And forget to sit.

When he brings the little curl of paper up to his lips, just the smallest tip of tongue slipping out to wet the edge, his eyes meet mine, catching me staring. Fiery green irises blaze mischief as he twists the ends up quickly, straightening his back as he finishes. Laying it next to the lighter, he briefly sucks his thumb and index fingertips, and I can't help but watch his lips part and close for the barely-there coat of sticky resin left on his skin. Just like I wanted to do.

Ignore it, just ignore it. Ignore that slip-slick hot feeling.

It's pretty hard to ignore.

Especially when he looks up at me from under his eyelashes with a half smirk that tells me that he knows, he knows, he knows.

It feels like my heart tumbles into a hole in my chest I didn't know was there.

He shifts on the couch, making room for me.

"Ladies first?"

I swallow, and my dry mouth mocks me.

"Okay."

Taking a seat beside him, I'm careful not to let my thigh brush his as I sit. The scent shimmering around us is more tempting than a sweet vanilla drip sliding down the side of a waffle cone.

I take the expertly-rolled joint from his fingers, and inhale deeply before opening my lips for it. He holds flame to the tip and I pull the fire through the dried herb, sending smoke swirling into my waiting mouth and down deep into my lungs, filling them up with baby blue heaven.

Inhaling a sip of air through my nose, I pass him the joint and hold my breath inside. When he takes it from me, I notice how big his fingertips are in comparison to mine. How warm, how worn they look. I wonder what those hands have done. I wonder what they can do now.

I let the smoke drift out from my parted lips, lazy puffs pouring effortlessly into the air.

Beside me, I hear the soft crackle of fire in trees, and I know he's inhaling. Deep.

I keep my eyes on the floor. I can't look. If I look …. I can't look.

He leans his head back and exhales a thin stream of smoke straight up. It climbs toward the ceiling, slipping out in frictionless curls. When I can't resist, and my eyes go to his body, its language is a sound, a moan. His legs are parted wide, knees open. His arms are relaxed, wiry strength waiting under the wild things tattooed onto his skin.

Fuzziness falls behind my eyes, and a little of the warm, softly pungent scent clings to the inside of my mouth. He lifts his hand, offering me another hit without raising his head. I move to take it, but my coordination is off, and the light little joint falls through my fingers onto the red sofa cushions. I grab it back as quickly as I can, but I'm too late. It burns a little divot into the velvety upholstery fabric, not a hole clean through but just a little rough spot where the cherry singed the cloth.

"I'm so sorry! Oh my gosh, your couch! Shit, I'm so sorry." The words tumble out, and I wish I could think of what to do except say it louder.

He exhales softly, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it."

"But it's so pretty! It was perfect, and now it's … " I don't know why I feel a sudden twisting in my throat, a little choking sound keeping me from finishing the sentence in my head.

"Ruined?" he smiles, and gives a soft little snort of air. "Nah. Come here, look." He gestures toward his other side, his arm dropping off the side of the couch. I draw a breath of smoke from the joint as I lean, pinching it a little too tightly, but I can't see what he's pointing to, and I have to press myself against him, leaning my upper body over and into his lap as I squint.

"This one?" he rubs his finger into a little burn-hole I hadn't seen before, but this one is deeper than mine. It goes straight through the dark fabric covering, into the white under-cloth and the padding beneath. "This one was the night after a Placebo show last Saint Patrick's Day. My ride ditched me and I had to walk home, stopping at every open bar on the way. When I got here, I rolled up but passed out with it lit, until the smell of melting polyester woke me up."

I giggle, charmed by the image of him, asleep sitting straight up, like a toddler after the fair.

"And this one," he shakes his head, "Christmas party, oh-eight." The burn was kind of big, and I wonder why I hadn't seen any of these when I first walked in. "I still don't know who did it. It doesn't matter, really."

"You could patch it," I offer, half question and half suggestion as I pass the joint back, making sure his fingers grip it well before I let go.

He continues as if he hasn't heard me, gesturing to a handful of birdshot burns, a bunch of small little charred black divots between us, on the upright back of the couch. "This was courtesy of your boy downstairs," he says with a little laugh. "Ask him about the first time he used a gravity bong sometime."

I shake my head. "He's not my boy. He's Rose's."

He nods at me, shoulders forward, listening.

"I mean, we're not close. He's cool, but I don't know him that well, really. Just Rose really loves him and I'm so happy for her, you know, but he's different, not the kind of guy I would be into, like not even close to my type ..."

Why am I still talking?

He smiles, squinting, and inches a little closer to me on the sofa. At least I think he does. Maybe he's just making himself more comfortable.

"What _is_ your type, Bella?"

I cringe. I stepped right into that.

I try to think while he takes two more puffs, exhaling them out his nose like a dragon. But thinking is hard, and it's just getting harder, especially when he's looking at me in that expectant way. Like he wants to know.

He picks up these little blue tweezers and passes me the roach with them, and I stare down my nose, watching the glow burn down as I take my last lungful.

I answer him on the exhale, smoke softly obscuring my face like a veil.

"I don't know. I don't think I have a type."

He finishes the joint, dropping the little scrap of burning paper in the ashtray before stretching out, relaxing into the couch and turning his attention to me. Without the joint, there is nothing to focus on but each other. I want to look at him, but I feel like I'm not allowed to. Like looking at him the way I want to forms some kind of a contract. Like it reveals me.

"Well, what would your type be, if you had one?"

This weed is fogging up my filter. I start actually imagining what kind of things I find myself drawn to. I haven't thought about what I would want in so long.

Someone kind.

Gentle.

Creative.

Someone who …

And that's when I realize my mouth is moving. That I'm saying these words out loud.

"Someone who what, Bella?"

I am so aware of his thigh touching mine, it's hard to think straight. Through both of our jeans, I can feel how hard his body is, under his skin. It's so warm, muscular. I feel like I can smell him. Sandalwood, vanilla. Green. He smells like waiting, but not fruitless waiting. Not like wasted time and giving up and missing the best part He smells like waiting for the sun. Like good things come to those who wait. Like patience and promise and starting a book you know you're going to love.

"Someone who … " I let my eyes close. It's easier to think and talk when I shut them. "Someone who isn't afraid. Who's not as shy ..." I trail off, and in my mind I can imagine how his lips look as they part, just barely-hinting at a smile.

"Not as shy as me," I finish, finally opening my eyes. His are such vivid green, and despite a little touch of bloodshot haze, they're so honest, so clear.

"I don't think you're shy, Bella," he says, low and soft like a prayer. "I think you're just … a little careful."

"I'm _too_ careful," I chuckle. "I talk myself out of everything. I look so long, I never leap. I almost didn't even come here today."

He moves closer again, his whole side pressed into mine, his arm behind me on the edge of the couch. I can smell the smoke on his lips, clinging to his stubble. I can feel the heat of his skin, even in the chilly air. It pulls me, draws me. I am literally attracted to him, and I never felt like this before.

"Are you glad you did now?" He brushes a little lock of hair out of my face, and he's touching me on purpose. I've been so aware of our bodies, and keeping them apart; it's an ugly little trick my anxiety plays on me, a game where it feels like I have to keep people from touching me. I don't always realize I'm doing it, but tonight, I knew. I knew, and I was trying to win.

It's only now that I realize, I was losing, this whole time. Lost.

"Yes," I breathe, my eyes closing under the heaviness of so much wanting, so much new aching.

And in the millisecond after I confess it, the very instant my lips stop making the sound, his are on mine, and their softness claims and overwhelms me.

I feel like I'm kissing the surface of the ocean at night. His mouth is as soft as water, moving as natural as waves. Edward closes his lips around my bottom one, gently undemanding, and he tastes like white smoke and growing things. He tilts his head, seeking more of my mouth with his, and as my lips start to open, to press and slide with his, I know he's holding me up, and I float.

His first kisses are careful, light as petals. He touches my face with only fingertips, his caresses staying on my shoulders, my collarbones, my arms. I feel myself melting into him, sinking under his affection, and he deepens it. It's like he senses the scales tipping and wants to knock them over, and quietly set them on fire. I can't help but respond, my back arching towards him, my hands reaching to pull him closer. I feel the tightness of muscle just under his shirt, the coiled energy inside his body. I fear it, revere it, and most of all, I want to feel it.

He stands and I follow, desperate to keep his kiss. He's walking me over the the bed, his mouth moving ardently against mine, burning hot and pushing me backwards like an advancing storm. His hands at my waist find the hem of my shirt and push it up, fingers skimming my ribs slowly as the skin tingles at his touch. His hands are so big, so warm, with thick, strong fingers that feel so unlike my own.

I raise my arms over my head and he breaks away for the quickest beat of my heart, just to toss the shirt aside and then his hands are on my nearly-bare back, above and below the band of my bra. For a moment I can't remember which one I put on this morning, what color or pattern, and if my unders match. But then his mouth is on mine again, lips pleading, caressing, tangling and I no longer have any care at all what I'm wearing.

My back is against the cool white sheets then, his hands pinning my shoulders, and my knees part for him to hover between. My hands wander, one to his shoulder, fingers spread wide to pull him close, the other slowly sliding down his stubbled cheek, over his jawline, and then resting lightly on his adam's apple, where I can feel his warm blood pulsing under the skin. I remember the hourglass tattooed there and I feel a rush of something cool under my skin. He shifts above me, and a low moan rumbles from his throat, right under my touch.

He drops his hips against me, and he feels so good like this, between my legs, pressed hard but not hard enough, not close enough. I'm thirsty for him, starving suddenly for the kisses, the closeness I've shied away from for so long, from him. I want all of it and more from the sudden, strange man who treats his plants with more tenderness than most people give their children. Who doesn't feel the need to fill the air with small talk, who doesn't ask questions they won't listen to the answers for. Who hasn't taken his eyes off me since I got here, except for when I fell asleep under the stars in his basement.

He shifts forward, and his length is natural perfection against me. My breath catches in my throat at the sweet bliss that swims through my blood as he strokes against me, and I lift my body just slightly off the bed to meet the pressure of his push.

He utters a low, "Fuck … " and his voice is a matchstrike. I'm instantly imagining him inside of me, his hips holding mine open, my knees impossibly parted as he moves deep, deeper, deeper with every burning breath. I imagine the skin of his stomach sliding along mine, pressed and gliding. I imagine the sacred sting of penetration, of fullness, the struggle of skin to accept skin.

I'm beginning to feel crazed, and I wonder how much is him and how much is the weed. The world is upside-down, inside-out, and underwater. My head is soaring through euphoria, my body in love with his, and I am wanting things I never knew I could want from a man like this.

His mouth leaves mine for my jaw, my neck, decorating me with deep kisses from soft, earnest lips.

"I want you."

I hear it before I realize I am the one speaking, but I can't be embarrassed. It's simple and true and I'm not sorry.

His answer is buried in another long upward stroke of his hips, and I arch up into him for every taste of friction I can pull.

If I thought I might be imagining the way he hardened even more against me, I know I'm not mistaken about the teeth scraping their edges down my neck, towards the hollow at the center of my throat. His tender lips soothe raked skin, but only kindle the ache.

His knees nudge mine a little further apart, and I feel him share his weight with me as he brings himself to his elbows, his chest covering mine, pressing into my breasts. In the cool air of the room, his body heat draws me up and into him, like we were bound together, unseen strings pulling us tighter.

Shifting his weight to the left, I feel his right hand at my waist, the fingertips so warm and so callous-roughed as he slides with patient need up my side, over my ribs. He doesn't slow as he reaches my bra his fingers slip underneath the satin, next to my skin, and cup my bare breast. An instant rush of electricity warms between my legs, and I break the kiss just to look down and see his fingers, inside the cup, as they capture my nipple between, and squeeze, and roll. My hips rise, seeking him, and I see, and remember what color my bra and panties are.

 _Baby blue._

Before his mouth finds mine again, I inhale and the scent is there, free in the room but lingering on his stubble, mouthwatering herb and vanilla and darkness, tenderly cared for leaves that make my head fall back and my body light up when kissed by a little fire.

 _Need you._

His hands are on me, on my body, and I'm pinned under him, pressing just right and smelling so good, and my head is spinning and there isn't enough air. I whimper for more, and my legs wrap around his, sliding up the backs of his calves and pressing him closer.

Open, I feel so open.

It's almost frightening to be this open, but I can't remember ever feeling like this before, with anyone.

It's scarier to let go of the feeling now.

I know the joint is lifting me, peeling my inhibitions away. It makes me want to love, and love the wanting. It makes me soft where I used to be stiff. But it doesn't obscure my judgment. I can feel the volition in every breath, every movement. I know I can stop this.

I don't want to.

For once, I'm ready to fall.

He leans up, straightening his back, and suddenly he's so tall, so high above me. He reaches under me with both hands, cupping my ass and bringing my whole body up into his. Surprisingly strong, he moves me into him, against him, and my hands reach out for his waist, to bring him closer, to have all of him.

He's so solid, I barely move him, hands slipping down his waist to the top of his jeans, feeling the subtle texture of the denim as they slide around to the front of him, and tug gently at the button holding them on his hips. It's a test, a toe in the water, as much for myself as him. I can feel his cock between us, straining fullness seeking me from inside his jeans.

Mine.

For me.

The button slips open, and I am bold enough to palm him just once.

He kisses me harder for a moment, almost biting my mouth, and a groan from somewhere inside the hourglass thrums as he drags his hips upward, and closer, momentarily harder under my touch.

Shifting to his side, letting half his weight fall to the bed, he presses my hand before moving it aside.

"Just this," he breathes into the soft space between our mouths, "For now, can we … Just this. Okay?"

I nod, and wrap my arms around his neck, bringing him closer.

It doesn't feel like rejection. It feels like prudence, like saving something to take pleasure in another day. It feels more like a promise than a denial.

I feel it in my body, and he feels it within me, smiling against my lips, and it almost feels like he nods as he kisses me again.

Releasing my waist, running the tips of his fingers up my sides, he tickles when he reaches my ribs. I giggle, and he swallows the sound, and it lightens everything. And when he laughs with me, I can find the palest shade of smoke in his exhale.

Edward's hands follow the line of my arms, up and up over my head, until there are fingers twining into mine, his warm palms pressing against my smaller ones, and we are so close, I can't tell if he sighs, or I do, or we both do.

Eyes closed, I inhale my chest wide open, and as I feel his slow approach, and then the softness of his lips against mine, there's music. I swear I hear it, quiet and tentative, just notes barely acquainted with each other, growing sunward like calm blades of grass.

I don't know when Edward turned the stereo on, but I like this. It's relaxing, uncontrived, innocent feeling. And as I lift my chin to come closer, to kiss him deeper, the melody is interrupted by a discordant sound, like piano keys being smashed.

"Emmett, will you please stop fucking around on that piano, for God's fucking sake already."

And we laugh through our noses, and kiss again, and again, and one more time for good luck.

...

I'm still blushing when he tucks me into the car, a fat quarter in my pocket and his number in my phone, and says that he'll call me later. The look Rose gave me when Edward and I came downstairs together, hand-in-hand, was wide-eyed with surprise and pride and insistence on hearing everything as soon as we were alone.

…

EPOV

She's still blushing when I tuck her into the car, with a fat quarter-ounce of baby blue's finest in her pocket, and my private number in her phone.

The look on Emmett's face when I came downstairs, hand in hand with Bella, accompanied by a low whistle, was 10% confusion and 90% encouragement. The look Rose gave was a little more wary. I would expect nothing else from her.

"I'll call you tonight, okay?," I ask, leaning in for what's probably our fifth goodbye kiss as Emmett tosses a duffel bag in his trunk, light enough to lift with two fingers but heavy enough to get him charged for trafficking. He gives me a nod and a warm slap on the shoulder before settling into the driver's seat beside Rose, who's already rolling one.

"Someone smells like fruit," Emmett poses.

Bella's eyes are glinting, quiet little green songs on mine as she answers, "Watermelon."

"Wait," I tap the car hood, "I'll go grab one to take back with you. Promise to use sea salt, not table?"

Her laugh is so shy-small, but her smile is powered by NASA.

"Of course. It's my new favorite."

Bare feet are light over still sun-hot gravel as I jog around the side to the back, where the early-evening sun has left most of the garden, and the grass is cool between my toes. Checking the stripes at the blossom end of the melons, I select not the largest one, but the sweetest.

As I turn back towards the driveway, I almost trip over a femur sticking up out of the ground, off white and dappled with machete cut marks like a birch trunk. I nudge what's left of Jacob Black back under the topsoil, and hurry around to put the still warm, weighty fruit into Em's backseat, next to the smiling, innocent face of the first girl I've given a real damn about in more than a few years.


End file.
